A galdralag-style poem (or, as close as I could get to it) for Thor, storm magic, and the spirits of this land we now call Colorado.
Hawks in the air,
hanging on currents,
warmed by the song of the wind.
Clouds are coiling,
swaying the corn,
hungering to hunt down,
a hand rests on the hammer.
The sculptor is riding,
spirits are singing,
the wild wind blows.
Hammer hits chisel,
channeling power,
the hoof-beats of horses,
the heart-beats of humans.
The sky cracks open,
rain washing canyons,
roars across the Rockies.
The blue is broken,
birds take shelter,
the laughter of lightning,
licking the ledges and trees.
Mjollnir strikes,
might of the mountains,
twisters tear the prairie.
The wind is thrashing,
dancing with thunder,
and the bellows of bison,
call out Colorado.
